


Whispers from Home

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More angst, Post series 4, not a wip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: John is lost in mind and body in the aftermath of so much tragedy. The monsters of his past come back to haunt him and only Sherlock can bring him home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The final part of NaNoWriMo 2017
> 
>  
> 
> Just so you know:
> 
> I’ve said in the past that I would not do another long, multi-chapter story. I didn’t want to toss this one on the heap, so here is another and THIS will be the last one. I’m inclined to keep any future stories under five chapters. I thank you in advance, should you decide to plod your way through the dark journey for John's survival.
> 
> This is not a WIP, it is complete. I will post once or twice a day until the end.

It seemed to him it was a coming to as opposed to a waking up. When he finally prised his eyes open, it was no longer day as he thought he remembered it, and he wondered how long ago it was that it had become night. Lifting his head was almost more than he could command his muscles to do, but after a few more minutes of resting his forehead on his arm, he was able to look around at ground level.

The dark silence swallowed his groans as he pushed himself to sitting with slow, measured movements. Cold, bruised and damp, but otherwise unhurt in body, his head was a different matter. 

Forcing thoughts through the fog in his head was similar to reawakening from a drugged state. Whatever he could see, which was next to nothing, swam before his eyes. Squinting into the darkness didn’t change his perspective. 

As he sat there, his brain rebooted and slowly came on line, the swirling fog-thoughts dissipating as if sucked into an invisible vent. 

Reboot? Where did that come from? Confusion rattled around in his head. Then, images, followed closely by words, popped into being one at a time, seemingly hanging in the air in front of his eyes. 

Flexing his arms and legs gently, fingers, toes, shoulders and neck, completed his self-examination. Doctor. From somewhere inside his head he thought perhaps muscle memory worked for the brain as well as the body? Muscle memory? He rose to his feet, the darkness around him shifting as nausea washed over him and forced him to the ground again, with head in hands. The posture eased his sick feeling so that after several minutes he attempted to stand a second time. Though the accompanying vertigo was less severe, he swayed his way to a fallen log to sit on. 

As it became necessary to expand his thoughts...what? It suddenly seemed in error, these thoughts now elbowing their way into his head. They were foreign to him, not him. Not...John.

John. John Watson. Finally an identity. Leaning forward, elbows on knees and head in hands, John dragged in several calming breaths. 

As though nudged by someone or something outside himself, thoughts guiding him, he checked his pockets. Wallet and torch, intact. Feeling for his watch, he stared at it, slowly shaking his head when it told him it was just after midnight. With little hope of success, and not knowing where he might have dropped his phone, if he’d ever had it in the first place, John began the search. 

Every minor movement aggravated the pain in his head as John picked his way along the stone-scattered ground, and, much to his surprise, he found the phone a short distance away. Just as he folded his fingers around it a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him, causing him to stumble and lose his balance. John rolled down a small decline, slamming hard into the base of a tree. As the blackness gathered on his periphery, and stars danced in front of him, he sank into oblivion. 

When he came back to his senses, by some miracle he still had the phone in his hand. Crawling on hands and knees to the nearest rock on an even parcel of earth, John levered himself up and sat for several long moments before glancing at his watch, rubbing his temple as he did so. A short five minutes though it was, he rued the loss of time. Rued?

Turning on the phone only deepened his frustration. One unsent message intended for Angelo’s stared back at him. His stomach complained just then, reminding him that he was supposed to get takeaway on the way home, and like a film blossoming from nothing to everything, it all became clear.

“Sherlock,” John whispered into the night. 

“I’m here, John,” it whispered back in Sherlock’s voice, “until the sunrise, stay where you are.” 

John smiled, just a small lift to one side of his mouth, but that smile skittered away when another thought slammed into his still muddled mind.

Where was he and how did he get here?

With no clear answer, he pocketed his paltry collection of tools and, contrary to Sherlock’s silent advice in his own head, he began to walk. To where and in what direction he hadn’t a clue. If he walked long enough, he decided, he might walk into something or someone to guide him home.

“Sherlock,” he whispered as he walked. “I need you. How do I find my way home. How do I find my way back to you?”

John swiped at his eyes awash with tears as he walked, using his torch only when needed. Lost, alone and lonely, he didn’t feel much like a soldier at the moment. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered again. “Can you find me? Please? I really need you.”

What he wouldn’t have given for a Sherlock hallucination right at that moment, but there was nothing but darkness and the calls and scuttle of wild animals.

He walked on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hopefully shows the 'psychic or telepathic' connection that sets off Sherlock's rescue mission.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock stirred from his deep sleep, rolling to his side.

“Sherlock!”

Lifting his head from the pillow at the end of the sofa, the detective squinted into the darkness, expecting to see John looming over him with a tiny smile on his face and takeaway in his hands.

“John?”

When there was no response, Sherlock startled, fully awake and alert. Pushing back the afghan, John’s doing or Mrs. Hudson’s, no, Mrs. Hudson was away, he remembered. John then. His long legs carried him to their bedroom, and up to John’s old room, before returning to the sitting room. Not John. He must have pulled the afghan over himself because he was...alone.

“John?”

Glancing at his watch, his heart stuttered in his chest. It was long past midnight, John should have been home hours ago. 

“Phone, where is my phone?” he shouted to the no one in the flat. His determined search located it on the kitchen table where they’d eaten breakfast together, and amongst the dirty dishes he had promised John he would wash. The phone offered little in the way of clues; there had been no texts from his army doctor while John had been at the surgery. Still nothing unusual there, they rarely communicated while John was at work except for emergencies, of which there’d been none over the last week. 

Sherlock berated himself for being so distracted by his experiments, and editing John’s latest, as yet unnamed, blog post, until his eyes hurt and his vision blurred. He was BORED out of his mind by noon. Now, as nearly always his Mind Palace served him well, he retrieved the days events.

For lunch he’d eaten leftover ‘thing with the peas’ from the night before, and found it unsatisfying without John’s company. He’d entered his Mind Palace just after eight in the evening, giving himself an hour to put the last case to rest and then wandered to John’s wing to tidy up, he told himself, but more in an effort to fill the emptiness that followed him like a lost puppy. He’d passed all the doors where he stored the pleasant memories and the mysteries that were John Watson. For a reason he hadn’t parsed out at the time, he approached a specific, more recent addition.

Approaching this new room he’d projected at the end of a long corridor, Sherlock had stopped at the blue door, a blue to match John’s bright eyes, ah, sentiment, and which, at that moment, stood slightly ajar. For a moment he stared at the door, unable to visit the most recent memories that resided within. It was the reason he’d not tried to talk to John about his deepening concern over his doctor’s escalating, if not depression, then his withdrawal. It was all so clear at that moment, in retrospect, when hindsight...well, he knew all too well what kind of power hindsight wielded.

All the hurt and agony of John’s memories from the moment they’d met until Mary’s death and everything that came after washed over him at once. And he knew in that moment that the behaviour he’d seen over the last few days, and ignored, because he thought John wouldn’t want him to interfere, should not have been ignored. He blamed himself, not John.

As an afterthought, it must have been the moment he’d slipped from his Mind Palace and succumbed to sleep. An odd occurrence, but not an unprecedented one. It was for John, after all. Any deviation from the norm when it concerned John Watson most often was a pleasant one, so he’d dismissed the memory, but not deleted it. He never deleted anything about John Watson.

Shaking out of his disquieting thoughts, Sherlock quickly tapped out a text and pressed send without hesitation.

Where are you? -SH 

He waited barely a minute before texting again.

John. If convenient or inconvenient, contact immediately. Vatican Cameos needed. -SH

The detective followed immediately with a call, but it went directly to voicemail.

“John, where are you? Call me at once. Please.” Though he tried to keep his voice steady, it betrayed him.

“Please, John.”

He called Angelo’s, remembering too late that Angelo sat the last diners at eleven. Angelo answered, informing Sherlock that John never picked up their dinner order.

His worry at its apex, especially since John never arrived at Angelo’s, Sherlock called John’s work phone. The surgery phone rang a long time before someone answered. Apparently a busy night at the 24-hour surgery, it took more time for the doctor in charge to come to the phone; time that Sherlock didn’t have as he felt John slipping away from him. The doctor stated that John left just minutes after nine, the information collapsing the apex and pushing him upward into full-blown panic.

After disconnecting the call, Sherlock stared at his phone for a few extra seconds. “I’m sorry, John. Your safety supersedes your privacy.”

With a flick of his finger, Sherlock activated his “John Watson tracker.’ Previously used only for testing after installation, it was a precautionary tactic to be used only for emergencies, without John’s knowledge if the need arose. He shivered at the thought of John’s righteous indignation if he ever found out. Being a target of John’s verbal wrath was more terrifying than his evisceration of the criminal element. The need arose at that moment more than ever.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table while waiting. When the location appeared, he growled his frustration. He should have accepted the download that his brother offered. Was it an error? Shaking his head, he cancelled the search and accessed it again to confirm while slipping into his shoes and pulling on his Belstaff and scarf. The phone pinged again when its task was completed. 

“What? Impossible. Improbable, but true. John? What the hell are you doing out in the middle of Hampstead Heath?”

His first thought that John had been kidnapped constricted his throat. The visual made him gasp. Why would anyone kidnap him now? The last case was barely a four and the two people involved were on the decrepit side of catatonia. There was no other case at the moment.

Something was wrong. It just couldn’t be kidnapping.

At the door he turned back, strode to the fridge, and opened it with angry purpose. Stuffing his pockets with bottled water and biscuits, he descended the stairs as quietly as possible. He didn’t want to be delayed by Mrs. Hudson’s interrogation, but, then, he realised the time. She was asleep. 

By the time he turned the knob to the outside door, stepped out and closed it behind him, he remembered that Mrs. Hudson was visiting friends for a few days. At that moment, from deep within his Mind Palace, the urge to agree with his brother that caring was not an advantage raised its ugly head. His brother was wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Sherlock swiped his hand in the air to erase the words from his head. His emotional connection with John was everything that was good in his life. Not only was it a viable source to find John, it was an invaluable comfort. 

John was the love of his life; of that simple fact he was certain. And after all their ups and down and joys and sorrows, he knew John loved him with all his heart. He was certain of that as well. John was a very bad liar, so when he spoke the truth, which was always, it came from the very deepest part of his heart. The “H” in his name could stand for honesty and heart as well as Hamish. Ah, sentiment once more.

As he stood at the kerb, Sherlock closed his eyes, letting his other senses wait for the cab. Was it an omen for them that this little corner of London was silent in the early hours of the morning? Shaking off that oddly morbid thought because he didn’t believe in such nonsense, it nevertheless gave him pause. 

Even after midnight, Sherlock’s fortune held when a cab appeared some distance away. He stood tall and straight, in his Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective pose, and boarded the cab before it had come to a full stop.

“Considerable tip if you get me to Hampstead Heath, Highgate, in less than fifteen minutes?”

“At this time of night, Mr. Holmes, I can get you there in just under ten.”

“Good man,” Sherlock purred, already tapping an impatient toe on the floorboard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John continues his journey to nowhere unaware of how his constant wandering is worrying Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.ispot.tv/ad/dlH3/upmc-living-donor-liver-transplants
> 
> If you haven’t seen/heard this, turn up the volume and listen to the liquid chocolate voice of our own BC. Pay close attention to his pronunciation of ‘center’ and ‘transplant.’ Sigh...

When awareness dawned again and John’s legs felt weak and wobbly, he sought another sitting place and eased himself down onto a boulder with an indentation that fit him comfortably. Well, not exactly comfortably; more like comfortably damp, considering the intermittent drizzle. 

His watch indicated that although it seemed like forever, only fifteen minutes had crawled by. Desperately thirsty, and beyond hungry, he dared not try to capture rainwater and had not even a sweet his pockets. Remembering his previous vertigo, John gathered his strength and stood up. He waited until the trees stopped spinning before he attempted to move about, finally walking on, even though he had no sense of which direction was the one to lead him to Sherlock. 

After a while, he lost count of the number of times he stumbled and fell. His knees hurt, damn, everything hurt now. He longed for some warm place. The wind had increased, slicing through his jacket as though he wore none at all. The cold and damp curled inside him, chilling him to the bone. He longed for gloves and a hat; the Sherlock Holmes hat would have done.

With his thought processes compromised, thirty minutes passed before he thought to look at his watch. When he started to see Sherlock around every tree or standing on a hill, his Belstaff collar turned up, the coat swirling around his long, lean body, looking all cool and mysterious, John knew he was dehydrated, thus the visions. He was too afraid to call them hallucinations. There wasn’t much he could do about that. He had to keep moving. He had to find the way home to Sherlock.

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he remembered,phone. He had a phone. John shook his head, too tired to berate himself as he patted every pocket. As always, it was the last place he searched: the back pocket of his jeans.

Holding the phone firmly in his hand, he stared at it for a long time before his memory provided the detail to push the right keys.

“Sherlock,” he whispered for what seemed like the dozenth time. Sherlock was the only important thing on his mind. Sherlock could find him.

Just the thought of hearing Sherlock’s voice evoked prickles behind his eyes which he blinked away with an Englishman’s efficiency that seemed foreign to him now, and a longing in his chest that only a palm and splayed fingers could relieve. 

With shaking fingers, John pressed the numeral and speaker that would connect him with his lifeline. His heart, soul. His love.  
His consulting detective.

“John!”

John startled at the panic he heard in Sherlock’s voice when he answered on the first ring.

“Sherlock.”

“Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Just some bruises,” John replied, not wanting Sherlock to worry.

“Why are you in The Heath?”

“What? I don’t understand, Sherlock?”

“Think, John. Why are you in Hampstead Heath?” 

John thought about it, as requested. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Were you taken against your will?”

“No...I don’t think I was kidnapped, Sherlock.”

“John, you don’t sound like yourself. You sound scattered and unclear. Did you hit your head?”

John had no explanation to offer.

“John? Talk to me...please. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know...my head is all muddled. Sherlock?”

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock responded in the deep baritone that always comforted John, like his own personal octopus around him in the night.

“I miss you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I want to come home.”

“I’m on my way, John. Stay on the phone.”

0o0

During the drive north, Sherlock kept a running conversation with John, urging him to stay where he was, but according to the app, John was still wandering. Nothing Sherlock said seemed to stay with him longer than the time it took the detective to say the words.

Nine minutes later, Sherlock emptied his pocket of whatever notes he had and stepped out. 

“If that’s not enough, drop in at Baker Street on your next shift. I’ll leave an envelope for you with my landlady.”

The cabbie stared at the rumpled notes in his hand. “No need, Mr. Holmes, this is more than enough. “Thank you.”

As the cab left Sherlock behind, John’s weary voice, too soft to discern the words, raised his concern once more. 

“John? Repeat what you said?”

His army doctor didn’t answer at first.

“John? Are you still with me?” 

“You never say ‘thank you,’ not to a cabbie. Sherlock? I want to come home.”

“Yes, John, but I am worried that you don’t seem yourself. I know you want to come home, but you keep moving about. It will take longer for me to find you if you don’t stay in place. I’m at the Highgate entrance. Look around you. What do you see?”

“Trees. Sherlock? The battery is low.”

“No buildings, ponds? Anything?”

“Trees, Sherlock, it’s dark. I just see...trees.”

“I’m trying to locate you again. Stay where you are.”

“It’s cold. I can’t stop shivering.”

“Okay. Stay where you are.”

“No. Walking...too cold to stop.”

“No, John, stay right where you are.”

“Why?”

“You won’t like this, but I installed an app on your phone so I know where you are at any time.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock frowned. Not the response he expected. Not good.

Triangulating his own position with John’s, he groaned when John was on the move again, and as before, away from him.

“John, stay where you are. I’m on my way to you.”

“Sherlock, my phone battery is low,” John said for the second time.

“Damn.” Nothing he said kept John from wandering. In the past, when John needed to get away, to think, he always walked, sometimes for hours. Was that the reason here? He didn’t know. John seemed unable to think rationally or follow instructions, as though some event, temporarily, he hoped, had short-circuited his thoughts and thus kept him wandering.

“John?”

“Sherlock.”

“Listen carefully. You need to preserve your battery until I can get closer to you.” 

“Okay.”

“Wait! John, don’t turn if off yet.”

“I miss you.”

Sherlock sighed. “I miss you, too.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Can I still come home?”

“Of course,” he said, not allowing himself to discern what John meant, but knowing full well in his heart that John was somehow lost inside his head. His stomach flipped, leaving behind a bit of not good. “I love you, John Watson, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” came John’s breathy whisper.

“John, listen carefully. When I tell you, I want you to turn off the phone to preserve the battery. I can still track you, but you have to stay where you are. That’s very important. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to turn it on every ten minutes thereafter for one minute. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but I need to talk to you.”

“And I need to talk to you, too, John. I want to make sure you are okay every ten minutes? Is that all right with you? Can you do that?”

“I think so, yes, I can do that, yeah.”

“That’s my John. I trust you, I know you can do it.”

“Okay.”

“Are you ready, John?”

“Yes. No! Wait!”

“I’m still here, John.”

“I have to tell you something very important.”

“I’m listening, John. What is it?”

“I love you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes against the tears, knowing his voice would not support him. “I love you, too, John. Very much. With all my heart,” he said around a lump in his throat.

“I want to come home.”

“Soon, John. Very soon.”

“Do I turn it off now?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Not good, John, not good at all,” he whispered when John’s phone switched off. 

Sherlock studied the little red dot that was John as he walked in that direction. For a long five minutes it was stationary. Then, John was on the move again. 

Sherlock increased his pace, thankful he’d worn the hiking shoes that John had insisted he buy for the very seldom, very occasional country walk. His usual shoes never would have done in this terrain.

As he closed the distance, he realised that John was walking erratically, not in circles, nor in a straight line toward any particular location. It was as though he were out on a stroll, admiring the scenery.

It was confounding. A frightening odyssey even for a consulting detective. The entire adventure, for lack of a more appropriate word, was so unlike John that Sherlock’s own fear rose in his subconscious like a monster looming over him in the night, about to bury him in its path.

Setting aside his dread so that he remained focussed, he kept moving, two steps forward, one, sometimes two and an occasional three steps backward in a moment to moment adjustment to not fall too far from his target. 

His John.

At the ten minute mark, Sherlock stared anxiously at the phone, waiting for John to turn it on again, but at fifteen, there was only silence. 

On the app, John’s little red dot continued to move, pausing on occasion, as though he’d stopped to rest, or perhaps he’d stumbled and fallen, a thought which induced inconvenient anxiety in Sherlock’s chest. It was a feeling with which he was not unacquainted since John became a part of his life.

All these new feelings threatened to occupy too much of his mind to the detriment of his search. As he often did with a gentle hand to the small of John’s back, he guided those precious feelings to an easily accessible spot in his mind palace, surrounded them with figurative bubble wrap to coddle them until he and John were together again.

He willed John to turn on the phone, using some of John’s more imaginative epithets, but nothing helped. Then, just as he was close to despair, John was there, connected once again. 

“Sherlock?”

“I’m here. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, I’m sorry, I forgot. I’m lost, Sherlock. I don’t know where to go to find you,” John said in a voice tinged with panic.

“It’s okay. You’re tired, your thinking is a bit mixed up, but...I’ll be with you soon.”

“I forgot that you said to stay where I was. Now I’m lost again,” John whispered, his voice sad and sounding hopeless.

“I will find you, John. I promise.”

“It’s too cloudy, I can’t see the north star. If I could I’d be able to find you.”

“It’s all right. We’ll be together soon.”

“I need you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes as his heart clenched in his chest. “I need you more than you know, John.”

“I have to turn off the phone again. Not much battery left.”

“Okay. I’ll keep watching you on my app. Please, John, stay in one place. It will make you easier to find. Please, John, please remember.”

“I will, Sherlock. I promise.”

John’s promise was forgotten five minutes later. Sherlock sighed. It was now two in the morning. It should not have taken this long. It was hateful and tedious. 

Some sort of dementia reference uglied its way into his thoughts. He beat it to bits with his visual fists.

On a normal day, in a normal situation, they would have laughed at that, but this was no normal day. Sherlock didn’t, couldn’t laugh. He blinked away his tears and sniffed, which reminded him all the more of John.

“Love you, John.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is still on the move, his phone battery is running low, and the monsters are gathering, and Sherlock is trying not to panic.

Tucking his phone into his pocket, John continued on his trek around the Heath withdrawing deeper inside himself with each step he took until there was nothing outside himself that held his attention.

As he stumbled his way past tree after tree, with Sherlock’s voice in his head, telling him to hunker down in place, he came upon a tree with a tangled, above-ground root system that curled into a small hollow. After wriggling in just a bit, he found it would suit for a short amount of time while he waited for Sherlock to find him. Knees against his chest, his hands tucked in between, he rested his forehead against his knees and soon drifted off to a fitful sleep. 

Startled awake by disjointed and distorted images, John stared ahead of him into the darkness, his mind a kaleidoscope of memories that he refused to remember while awake, but had no control over while asleep. He couldn’t remember how long he’d forgone any restful sleep. Somewhere inside his head, he realised he was in trouble. 

The snapping of tree branches nearby brought him back to reality with a jolt. 

“Sherlock?” 

When there was no answer, he looked at the blurry, luminous dial of his watch which told him he’d been asleep for thirty minutes. Time jumbled in his head, but he somehow remembered the details of time passing each time he looked at his watch. It was nearing three and it seemed like the night might go on forever. He wondered if it would ever end even with the sunrise.

The darkness gathering behind his eyes was at once a respite and a torment, something to seek out and then regret. An instant before he let go of the reality, a voice so very similar to Sherlock’s called to him. 

Dawn will break soon and I will find you.

John called out at the moment the darkness stole him away.

He woke the next time with little sense of time or himself. Raising his head, he tried to work up some saliva in his mouth. Fail. His surroundings seemed lighter, but he reckoned it might be the fog that had invaded his head while he slept. Thoughts that had seemed sensible before, now were shrouded in uncertainty. Only one remained clear.

He had to find Sherlock.

After more wriggling and grunting, he freed himself from his temporary...bolt hole? Standing on shaky legs, one hand on the tree for support, John took a few halting steps, shaking out the pins and needles as nerves and muscles held captive far too long fired from his hips to his toes. He shook his head slowly to clear it as much as it would allow. 

Increasingly unsteady, John stumbled over tree roots or stepped into pockets of uneven terrain that drove him to his knees. 

The voice in his head, Sherlock, told him to turn on his phone, so he obeyed, pressing the #1 on his phone. Forcing himself to stand for what he hoped was not his last time, and ignoring the fact that somewhere in his gut he knew he was responding to an hallucination. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d carried on a conversation that was all in his head. 

Mary. No, she was dead. Yes, she was. Dead.

Her visage, as lovely as ever he remembered at the beginning and later, at the end, slowly morphed and distorted, into the assassin who nearly killed his best friend.

“Oh, god. No! Not now...I can’t...go away.”

John ran then, to distance himself from the memory, but just a few yards along he tripped, falling hard on his chest. His phone flew out of his hand, skipping just out of reach.

Rolling onto his back in an effort to drag air into his struggling lungs, John heard Sherlock’s voice.

“John! John?”

Unable to speak, or reach out, John clawed at the ground, dragging himself forward until his hand closed over the phone.

“Sherlock.”

“John, are you all right?”

“Can’t.”

“John.”

John’s phone shut down suddenly, leaving him more alone than ever. Too despondent to pull himself up, he turned off the useless phone, hugging it to his chest.

“Sherlock. Love you.”

There was no one to hear him but the trees. And they had nothing to say.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock calls on Mycroft for help. He, Sherlock, is not pleased, but it's for John.

With no communication now that John’s battery supported only the tracker, but not a call or text, Sherlock again triangulated his position with John’s, and gained significant ground because John had been stationary for the last thirty minutes. 

As his fear of somehow losing John overwhelmed his heart, Sherlock finally admitted to himself that he could not find John on his own. Too much time had passed and John was hurt and obviously exhausted.

Desperate now, he called his brother and without preamble explained the situation. 

There was a pause on the other end of the call. Annoyance, he supposed. He steeled himself for the big brother, I’m smarter than you, Sherlock, disapproval, especially upon waking him in the predawn hours.

“Give me thirty minutes, Sherlock,” he said, after which the call disconnected.

It was the longest thirty minutes of his life. Moments later, John’s little red dot began to move again, which was a good sign even though it was away from where Sherlock needed him to be.

“John.”

For a long time he stared at the dot, his heart sinking to a depth he’d not felt in an age. Not since the time when he feared John would leave him forever.

He jumped when his phone pinged: a call, not a text. Unusual for Mycroft, but welcome nonetheless.

“Mycroft.”

“I have you on satellite, night vision.”

“The Heath is not that large, Mycroft. It shouldn’t be hard to find him.” Sherlock endeavoured to keep his voice neutral. It wasn’t a time to devolve into petty sibling animosity. This was John.

“Three hundred and twenty hectares actually or seven hundred ninety acres, if you prefer.”

“Not helpful, Mycroft. Seven hundred ninety acres and I only care about John. Spare me the Wikipedia details.”

“Apologies, brother mine.”

“Now, Mycroft.”

“Ah, there he is, at approximately the middle of the Heath.”

“Can you guide me there?”

“Triangulating now.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch. 

“When is sunrise, Mycroft?”

“Fifteen minutes, although it won’t be high enough to clearly see him if he is among the trees.” 

Mycroft was silent for several long moments. “I have him.”

“Give me a moment. I need to change the battery in my phone so I won’t lose you. I’ll call you right back.”

“Standing by, Sherlock.”

As he snapped on the back cover of his phone, it pinged. His heart stuttered in his chest as he looked closer.”

“John?” Sherlock blinked away the tears burning his eyes.

“Sherlock.”

“Is your phone not dead?”

“Couldn’t see well. Thought it was. There’s just a bit of blue...bottom of the blue box.”

The detective’s heart ached at hearing how weak and vulnerable John sounded. Anxious more than ever to find him, Sherlock didn’t want to lose him now.

“John. I need you to listen very carefully.” 

“Okay,” John whispered.

“Mycroft is helping me find you, but you need to stay where you are.”

“Too tired to walk anymore.”

“That’s okay. That’s a good thing. Do exactly as I say, John, and we’ll be together very shortly. Please?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I need you to be here.”

“Listen carefully. After I tell you what you need to know, you will have to disconnect me so that I can talk to Mycroft. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I will call you back after I talk to him, okay? Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Stay where you are, John.”

“Okay.”

“Now you can disconnect.”

“Bye.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched at John’s last word. 

“Mycroft. I have John on standby, but his phone won’t last long, and I need to call him right back He doesn’t sound very well. I have to get to him as soon as possible.”

“We have surveillance on both of you. You are stationary now. Can you tell me to what your heading is?”

Sherlock glanced at his compass. “Southeast.”

“Retrace your previous route, Sherlock. That’s it, you are very close. He’s on the verge of a stand of trees just south of the Kenwood House not far from the pond, on the north side. I have you on screen. You are moving in the correct direction. You should have visual shortly from the angle of the sun. Until then I’ll guide you.”

“I need to talk to John.” 

“I’ll be here when you need me again.”

Sherlock increased his pace until his lungs burned with the  
effort.

“John? Are you still with me?

“Here, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock grimaced at the quiver in John’s voice. “Can you stand, can you walk?”

“I think so.” 

“I’m not far away now. Can you walk a few yards in any direction so I can locate you on my app?”

“Yes,” John groaned, his breathing labored even over the phone static.

“Okay, John. Hold on, I need to coordinate with Mycroft. Stay right where you are.”

“‘kay.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice echoed around him. “He’s moving away from you. Direct him to turn 180 degrees.”

Sherlock’s hands began to shake as he tried to remain calm.

“John, you’re moving in the wrong direction. Turn 180 degrees. Good. I need to talk to Mycroft again.”

“Yes.”

“Angle to your left, Sherlock. John is moving very slowly and a bit erratically, but on a direct intercept with you. Remain on your current course.”

“I need to talk to John now.”

“Of course, brother mine. I will be here.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, and connected with John again, regretting that he had only one line on his phone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a visual on his target.

John stopped counting at nine this time: the number of times he’d fallen. There wasn’t a bone or muscle that didn’t scream for relief, but all he wanted and needed was Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry.” he said immediately when Sherlock returned to him. 

“For what, John?”

“For everything.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“No, I-”

“No, John, just no. Not now. It is what it is. We know that. What’s past is past.”

“But-”

“John, when we get home, we can talk about it, if you still want to, but not now. Save your strength. I’ll be with you soon, I promise.”

“‘Kay.”

“You’re doing fine. You’re moving in the right direction. It won’t be long now.” 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“There isn’t a lot of battery left this time.”

“It’s okay, John. Walk as much as you can and then sit down. I’ll find you.”

“Sherlock?”

“I’m here, John.”

“I love you.”

Those were the last words John said. The phone was really and truly dead.

John’s dot continued moving in the right direction.

0o0

“Go farther to your right, Sherlock, he’s veering off again.”

“His phone is dead, Mycroft. I have to rely on you now.”

Fatigue hung on his shoulders like a shroud, but Sherlock kept moving, knowing John was hurting physically and emotionally. He had to get to him soon, had to bring him home. 

“Distance, Mycroft?”

“Just under 2000 meters.”

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

“Really, Sherlock, you very well know the metric system.”

”My mind is on one person only and I’m not in the mood for your attempts at levity.”

“Really, Sherlock, very well, Imperial it is. One thousand ninety-three point six yards.”

“Not any better, Mycroft, but thank you.”

“You’re always welcome, Sherlock, as you should know. I will stay with you until you have visual on John. If need be, I will guide you back.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said, without the least bit of annoyance. He’d save that for another day and another brotherly issue.

Sherlock approached the stand of trees just as the sun filtered through the last of the autumn-tinted branches, idly thinking that one day soon, these trees would be bare and the only color would be the evergreens and a bit of snow. 

He waited there for a few moments, certain he heard John muttering in the early morning silence. Voices echoed in this place. Stepping carefully and as silently as possible, Sherlock advanced on the location and stood inside the coniferous forest.

If at leisure, he might have been slightly awed by the sun streaming through the trees, calculating its angle and a myriad of other...but not today. Not at this moment.

“I can hear him, Mycroft.” 

While watching the little app dot that he knew was John, he was acutely aware of slow, plodding footsteps in the fallen leaves. His heart constricted painfully as he continued forward, careful not to startle John.

“I have visual, Mycroft. Thank you.”

“Give him my best, brother mine. I will stop by when you are both rested enough to receive annoying visitors.”

“Annoying or not, dear brother, you are almost always welcome.”

Sherlock briefly grinned at the silence on the other end of the call. The call disconnected within seconds.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I thought I was the one who made dramatic entrances."

Pocketing his phone now that he had line of sight, he looked up at the exact moment that his doctor appeared between two trees, the morning sun behind him, casting John in a halo like a returning soldier in a scene from one of those sentimental films into which John sometimes lost himself; the ones he tolerated to witness the play of emotions on his army doctor’s face. 

“John?” Sherlock called to him.

John’s head, which had been tilted down at the ground, slowly rose, and turned from side to side, seeking him out. When their eyes met, John straightened, firming his jaw, as he adopted his military state.

“Sherlock?” John called in a weak voice, raising one hand in greeting. He slumped suddenly, as though his bones could no longer hold him upright.

Sherlock ran toward him, reaching out just as John pitched forward. Arms around him, John’s muddy cheek resting against his shoulder, the detective eased him to the ground. Quickly removing his coat, he wrapped it around his army doctor and pulled him against his chest. Cradling John’s head, he twisted just enough to kiss his temple.

“I thought I was the one who made dramatic entrances.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Thank you...for not giving up.”

“I will never give up on you, John.”

John groaned and shuddered, holding him tighter.

“It’s all right now. I’m here.”

0o0

In the shelter of Sherlock’s arms, John drifted, arms around his love’s waist and holding on, unwilling to let go of him for fear he might disappear. He half-dreamed of home, that warm corner of Sherlock’s heart where he always felt safe. Tipping his head back, John gazed up at him, his beautiful face in small bits and then as a whole. Sherlock leaned closer, kissing his forehead, one long finger caressing his cheek. For a moment John couldn’t believe his eyes.

“I’m really here, John, don’t fret,” Sherlock whispered, pulling the Belstaff closed across John’s chest.

“Your coat, got mud all over it.”

“No worries, it’s just a coat, John. You are more important to me than my coat.”

John closed his eyes. Swiping his tongue across his lips drew an immediate response from Sherlock.

“Thirsty?”

Cradled in the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, John watched the cap on the bottle disappear and followed the open bottle nearing his mouth.

“Slowly, John. You don’t want to induce nausea.”

“Too late,” John mumbled, then smiled a bit when he noticed Sherlock’s lips quirk.

“Well then, just a few sips to see how you fare and if you keep it down, I have something else that might sit nicely on your stomach.”

“Chinese or Thai?”

“Droll, John. For someone who was lost for hours...”

“But you found me,” John countered.

“Yes, very fortunate for you...and for me as well,” Sherlock told him in that honey voice that made him shiver.

“Cold?”

“A bit. More water, please.”

Swishing the water around his mouth seemed to calm the nausea enough to make room for the ache of his hunger to assert itself. When his stomach growled, Sherlock shifted him again to gain access to another pocket. John groaned and protested just enough to provoke a sigh from his detective.

“Patience, John,” he whispered with a smile on those incredible lips. “You will be well rewarded.”

John managed a tiny grin to show the great git that he was amused. He was not fooled by the smile that was at odds with the worried rumple between Sherlock’s brows. Worry was the last thing he wanted to see on that lovely face.

While waiting for Sherlock’s promised treat, John sighed and closed his eyes. The unveiling of a napkin-wrapped biscuit, no, two, no, three small biscuits made his mouth anxious for one.

“They’re a bit crumbled, John, I’m sorry. They’ve been on a journey after all.”

“It’s fine, love.”

“Mrs. Hudson injected a bit of butter into them to keep them moist.”

“Hmm. Good.”

John tried to sit up, but failed miserably because Sherlock wouldn’t allow him to be upright. When the effort made his head spin, he fell back into strong arms.

Sherlock held a biscuit for him to bite into. After two small portions, he drank more water. Both landed in his stomach with a welcome easing of his hunger.

The small amount of food and water made him sleepy, or maybe it was that he’d been out most of the night, lost and alone. He drifted again, safe in loving, arms, the morning sun warm against his cheek, the gentle rocking of Sherlock’s body offering the comfort he needed as desperately as the air he breathed. He drifted toward sleep, glad for the respite, only to be jolted awake as the distorted dreams threatened. 

“Sherlock,” he managed in a strangled voice.

Sherlock gazed down at him, a smile tipping his lips.

“Right here, John.”

“How long?”

“About twenty minutes. Mycroft just texted me. He’s been watching us on satellite and asked how you were getting on.”

“Oh.”

“He’s going to guide us to Kenwood House. There will be a car waiting for us.”

“Okay,” John said, pushing against Sherlock to sit up.

“Easy, John. You should have more water and a whole biscuit before we walk back.”

“I feel better and a bit stronger now. How far is it?” he asked around his biscuit chewing.

“Mycroft says it’s just under a mile. He wanted to know if I prefered to have the estimate in metric.”

“Arse,” John said, smirking a bit, mostly to ease Sherlock’s worry. “You are so going to coddle and cosset when we get home, aren’t you?”

Sherlock nodded dramatically for just a moment before the smile he saved for John alone lit up his face. John returned it in kind.

Sherlock helped him to his feet, a steadying hand at his back. He took the offered water bottle, filling his mouth and swallowing hard to wash down the biscuit.

“Let’s go home, John.”

John stared at him. “Yes, please.”

“Right.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the journey home, grumpy Watson makes an appearance.

After only a few hundred feet, Sherlock realised that John would not last the distance and might need to be carried for the final part of their trek. John would not like that at all.

Sherlock set the pace, holding on to John’s bicep at the outset. When a line of perspiration dampened his hair, they stopped to share the bottle of water and the last biscuit. John didn’t notice when Sherlock pretended to chew and took barely a sip of water and pressed the remaining piece of his biscuit into John’s mouth.

John glanced at him, suspicion in his eyes, but said nothing. Sherlock remained silent, hoping it would be forgotten. Underway once more, John didn’t protest when Sherlock offered an arm across his lower back and a firm grip on his belt. John walked with his head down, Sherlock noticed, apparently watching his own footfalls.

“I saw what you did back there.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock hedged, lowering his head to hear John better.

“Don’t pretend, you have no idea, what I’m saying, Sherlock. You gave me the last biscuit. When did you last eat?”

“John.”

“When?”

“Ah, I see, so Dr. Watson is with us now.”

“Sherlock,” John warned with an interesting combination of Dr. John and Captain John.

“Very well, John. I had the leftovers of your ‘thing with the peas,’ for lunch yesterday.”

“I...never mind. It takes more energy to be angry with you than to just accept it and keep walking.”

“Admirable, my love.”

“Don’t push, Sherlock.”

“Grumpy Dr. Watson. I do like that.”

John snorted, stopped and turned to him, resting his head against his chest. “Hmm.”

“Want to rest?”

“Not just yet, Sherlock. I can go a bit longer.”

Not long after, Sherlock’s phone pinged. 

“Mycroft. Yes, the tortoise wins the race, brother dear. Yes, all right,” Sherlock said, disconnecting the call and pocketing the phone.

“What was that about?” John asked, stumbling over a tree root.

“He’s giving me updates on distance to Kenwood House. We’ve walked approximately a quarter mile.”

“I’m walking too slow, Sherlock. We need to travel faster.”

Sherlock tightened his arm around John.

“No, John. Any faster and you might fall. And right now you need to conserve as much of your strength as possible or I might have to carry you part of the way.” 

Sherlock grimaced. He hadn’t intended to say that. Damn. John had a way of getting things out of him without doing or saying anything specific.

John stopped dead in his tracks and tried to stand tall. Out here, Sherlock observed, John was as small and as vulnerable as he’d seen in a long time. Sherlock’s heart thrummed and melted as he tried with much difficulty to not let John see him wear a warm, loving smile.

“Absolutely not, Sherlock. You will not carry me. Not now, not again. Never-ever.”

Sherlock put on his most sincere expression, nodded with a straight face. “Yes, John.”

“Good.”

John stepped forward, thankfully missing Sherlock’s smile.

“Stop it now, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock did not argue. He hummed a tune instead.

At another quarter mile, Mycroft checked in. Sherlock listened, did not respond other than a grunt, laughing when John stopped walking, reached for the phone, holding it out in front of him.

“I’m fine, Mycroft, thank you for asking. I’m walking as fast as your brother will allow. He doesn’t want me to fall because if I do, I won’t allow him to carry me and he just wants to not argue.”

“You are sounding much like yourself, Dr. Watson. I’m pleased that my brother is keeping you upright and moving.”

“F-” John began, but Sherlock took the phone before his better half could finish. Best to keep things cordial for the time being.

Phone in his pocket once more, Sherlock’s steadying arm in place, they walked on.

When they left the last of the tree line behind them, Mycroft texted. It was obvious to Sherlock that he wanted to avoid John’s wrath and that made him chuckle.

John was silent, the sweat again glistening on his forehead, but he stubbornly kept walking, head down, his fingers gripping the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers for support.

“Let’s stop here for a few minutes, John. You need to drink again.”

John nodded, obviously relieved when they found a dry rock to sit on. Holding John close allowed his doctor to rest his head on his shoulder. 

“There’s another bottle in the other pocket of my coat, John.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to lie back for a bit?” The sun is warm here.”

“No...yes...I don’t know. What? How far now?”

“I would guess...”

“You never guess.”

“Very good, John.”

“Don’t patronise me.”

“Ah, grumpy Watson has returned.”

Sherlock frowned, but said nothing. There was no way to hasten their pace any more than they already had. The uneven ground was taking a toll on John physically and, he suspected, emotionally.

Texting Mycroft again, he waited impatiently for his reply. Mycroft explained a slight adjustment to their movement. As usual his brother used his intellectual jargon, which raised Sherlock’s ire.

Our right or left too tired to deal with compass directions John on the verge of collapse may have to carry him soon whether he likes it or not -SH

He glanced at John as he punched the send, the lack of punctuation unimportant.

“John?”

“Elvis has left the building.”

“Film reference?”

“Will Smith. Independence Day.”

“Ah. Good that you’ve kept your sense of the absurd. When you’re ready, we’ll make a slight adjustment to our direction. Mycroft said we are nearly in sight of the Kenwood House. It should be just beyond that nearest stand of trees.”

“Should be? He couldn’t be definite? Fuck, Sherlock, it’s on the other side of those fuck-all trees!”

Sherlock dropped his hand to John’s shoulder, squeezing to offer what comfort he could. He understood how John must want nothing more than to be clean and in their warm bed.

“Okay?”

John sighed heavily. “Ready when you are, Mr. Holmes.

“That’s my Watson.”

John grunted and groaned as Sherlock helped him upright. “Too old, too old.”

“Nonsense, Captain Watson. You’ve barely reached your prime.”

“So says you.”

“And Sherlock Holmes is always right.”

“Right.”

Sherlock thought he heard John mumble something else that he was sure wasn’t kind, but he let it pass. Arguing with John might give him the forward push, but doing so now seemed a bit insensitive. 

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sherlock shouted as a text alert disturbed his thoughts. 

This is my last communication with you. You will be very pleased I would think. You will see the Kenwood House once you breach the tree line. The car will carry you home from there. Be well, both of you.-MH

We plan to sleep for a few days, Mycroft. Thank you.-SH

I would send you a smiley face, if I were so inclined, which I am not.-MH

:-) Bugger.-SH

Sherlock chuckled, turned towards John and caught him as he swayed against him.

“John? What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Dizzy.”

“Sit down for a bit. Here, drink more water. You’re still dehydrated.”

Sherlock held the bottle while John took several swallows, some of it soaking the front of his shirt, but his doctor didn’t notice.

Sitting close together, John’s head against his chest, Sherlock considered the problem of getting him to their destination without agitating the Watson stubbornness.

When John raised his head, Sherlock leaned in to drop a tender kiss to his still dry lips. Previously John had exhibited mild chills that disappeared when they began to walk. Now he was flushed and warm to the touch. One look at his glassy-eyed stare was warning enough to get him on his feet.

Wobbly-legged and swaying in place, John held fast to him as they moved forward to the tree line.

“Come on, John, you can do it. It’s not far now.”

“Not far now, John.”

“No, John, don’t do that. You’re scaring me.”

“Ohhhhhkay.”

The transition from the warm sun to the shade of the trees was a brief comfort, but John didn’t notice. He walked with his head down, stumbled often, his breathing more pronounced, knees buckling with nearly every step.

Sherlock took small comfort when they broke free of the last of the trees and spied the enormity of the stately Kenwood House basking in the morning sun.

“John, look. There’s the Kenwood House.”

John raised his head, squinting his eyes. Sherlock wasn’t sure if John could focus on the building, but no matter, they just had to traverse the expansive lawn to where the promised British government car awaited.

Just as they reached the edge of the lawn, and before Sherlock could catch him, John went down like he’d been shot, sprawling face first on the the grass.

“John, no, we’re almost to the car.”

Sherlock felt like crying. So close. So close. Pressing their foreheads together, he whispered encouragements to John while letting him rest for a few minutes.

“John? Listen to me,” he said, using his most persuasive voice. “I know you don’t want me to carry you, but it’s the only way we’re going to get to that car. You need to help me, John. Would you do that for me? Will you let me carry you this one time? Please?”

Sherlock waited for John’s response, but he said nothing. Instead, John struggled to his knees. That was all Sherlock needed. Positioning himself in front of John, he knelt down as far as his lanky legs would allow. John crawled up his back, his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders and across his chest, and his legs at Sherlock’s waist. Taking a moment to accommodate to the added weight, the detective inhaled deeply and lifted them both upright. Completing the carry position with his forearms beneath John’s knees, Sherlock locked his fingers together at his waist. 

Walking as quickly as possible, fearing John’s grip across his chest would not last long, he could feel his arms trembling almost from the start. Sherlock walked a straight line, alert to any blemish in the grass that might cause them to tumble to the ground.

They must look a sight, Sherlock thought as they approached the drive where the car waited. The driver climbed out to open the rear door.

Just yards from the car, John’s arms loosened and he   
began to slip.

“John, hold on, we’re almost at the car. Hold on.”

Increasing the length of his stride, Sherlock struggled to center John’s weight. By the time they reached the car, the forward-leaning momentum was all that kept John from falling off. Turning his back, thus John’s, to the open door, Sherlock bent his knees.

“I have his head, Mr. Holmes,” the driver said.

Sherlock tipped John onto the seat, hustled around the rear of the car and slid in, pulling him into his lap. The driver closed the door after them.

“Thank you Battles.”

Holding his doctor tightly against his chest, Sherlock rested his cheek against John’s fair hair and closed his eyes. Only when John sighed and curled into him did Sherlock notice the warmth of the heated seats and the faraway ping of an incoming call from the driver’s seat.

“Yes, sir, subjects safe and on the way to 221B Baker Street. Estimated time out, twenty minutes.”

Sherlock couldn’t discern the reply, but the voice was unmistakable. Seconds after the call ended, he retrieved his own phone from his pocket.

Apologies, brother dear, for being short with you. And thank you from both of us -SH

The response arrived seconds later.

Family. -MH

Remembering his angry “that’s why he stays,” from a lifetime ago, Sherlock smiled, turning his face to the window and holding John tighter. 

Perhaps Mycroft wasn’t so annoying after all. 

Making a mental note to add a small reminder to the Mycroft alcove of his Mind Palace, Sherlock dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As lovely as that sounds, Sherlock, I’d rather sleep in our bed with you and several duvets and a mountain of pillows.”
> 
> “I think that can be arranged, my dear Watson,” Sherlock said, waving his hand at the stairs, “but we have to navigate those seventeen stairs to get to that bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a shout out to John Cleese and David Tennant in this one. Just because.

The warmth, the movement of the car was a bit uncomfortable. Nausea rose upward until he thought he might choked. He forced his eyes open, startled at Sherlock’s concerned eyes resting on him.

“Okay? You look a bit peaky.”

“Water?” He swallowed hard.

“Nausea?”

John nodded. A small burst of cool water slipped over his tongue and down his throat.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

“We should be at Baker Street soon.”

“Oh.”

“How are you feeling?”

John thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I think I just want to crawl into bed and sleep for a month.”

“A month is rather excessive, John, but I would be happy to accommodate you in our bed for as long as you need. I intend to smother you with every bit of kindness and care of which I am capable.”

John snorted, turning his face to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“No, Sherlock. Seriously, I’m the one who did this, I can take care of myself. A doctor, you know. I’m sorry...”

Sherlock tightened his arms around him. “You say danger and here I am. Always for you, John, you should know that by now. Just promise to never go anywhere that I can’t follow and we’ll be just fine.”

John nodded his agreement snuggled in and closed his eyes once more. “You, the same, Sherlock,” he whispered.

“Yes, I promise also.” 

It seemed only seconds later that all movement stopped and Sherlock was feathering his cheek with his finger, whispering something about finally arriving home.

Groaning as Sherlock lifted him to a sitting position, John stretched his legs in anticipation of standing upright. Steadied by Sherlock’s strong hands, he crawled out of the car and stood precariously on the pavement.

“Do you need help getting upstairs, Mr. Holmes?”

John stepped toward the man, offering his hand. “No, thank you, I’m sorry, what is your name?”

“Battles, sir.”

“No, sir, just John.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock’s hand at his back irritated him. “No, Sherlock, absolutely not. I can climb the...seventeen stairs on my own.”

That settled, John turned and stumbled his way to the two step entrance...and sat down, leaning against the door, head in his hands.

“We can manage, Battles, but thank you for the offer.”

“Right, sir.”

With a tip of his head, Battles squeezed into the driver’s seat and pulled away from the kerb.

John looked up to find Sherlock sitting beside him.

“We could always break into Mrs. Hudson’s flat and sleep on her sofa tonight. She told me once that it was very comfortable.”

Even in his fuzzy-headed state, John knew Sherlock was trying to encourage him. He stared at the man, trying to get his wayward thoughts to his mouth, until finally the words tumbled out. “As lovely as that sounds, Sherlock, I’d rather sleep in our bed with you and several duvets and a mountain of pillows.”

“I think that can be arranged, my dear Watson,” Sherlock said, waving his hand at the stairs, “but we have to navigate those seventeen stairs to get to that bed.”

John sighed. “People at Speedy’s are going to talk if we don’t go inside soon.”

“Let them talk. They do so already, so why spoil their tawdry gossip?”

“Okay.”

John made the attempt to lift himself from the step, but only managed it with Sherlock’s help. A lot of Sherlock’s help. Sherlock’s did most of the helping. 

Inside, John shivered as the warmth circled around him. “Mrs. Hudson keeps an extra key to her flat hidden in the back of the coat closet,” John whispered, then didn’t know why he said it because Sherlock had a key and they didn’t need access to Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“I knew that. Did I know that? Why didn’t I know that, John?” he whispered back.

“Dunno.” John shook his head at Sherlock’s nonsensical reply. Maybe he was knackered, too.

It was a long trip up to the flat, and John silently counted each step. At the top, he was sure there was a fist-shaped wrinkle at the waist of Sherlock’s shirt. His detective-in-charge didn’t seem concerned and kindly didn’t comment.

When Sherlock slipped the coat from him, John stared at the mud on both the inside and outside.

“Your coat is ruined.”

“Nonsense, John. Mycroft has a personal cleaner who has magical powers with bespoke menswear.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Why should you be surprised? You know Mycroft. For a man who goes around turning the tides of wars and disrupting traffic, he commands only the best from everyone.”

“Except you.”

Sherlock smiled his most wicked. “But of course. I have to keep him honest. It’s one of my curses in life when it comes to my brother, the British government. God save the queen and all that drivel.”

John laughed, then swallowed hard against a wave of nausea. He reached out for Sherlock’s hand at the first twinge of an oncoming headache at the base of his skull. 

“Come into the kitchen,” Sherlock said, leading him there. “Some tea and more biscuits will feed you up enough to get you into the bath. Once you are safely in bed and quite comfortable, I will makes some of your favorite porridge.”

“Sherlock, no,” John pleaded, holding on to Sherlock’s shirtfront. “You were out there, too, because of my stupidity. I don’t deserve all this care and concern. I’m not very proud of myself for running away.”

Sherlock pushed him down into a chair and leaned over him, a warm palm against his jaw. “Pish posh, John. Forget all that for now. We can talk about that another day.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes; John didn’t have to guess what his next words would be, but somehow ‘pish posh’ didn’t quite fit his consulting detective. 

“Of course, if you need to discuss it now, well that would be okay, but, if you remember, we always talk better in the bath or in bed. What say you?”

John chuckled. “You are an adorable man. Pish posh? Really?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and brought his brightest smile out to play. “So you’ve told me on so many occasions that I’m very close to believing it. Ah, tea is ready.”

“Believe it, my honey bumpkin.”

“Eat your biscuits and drink your tea,” Sherlock teased, setting two cups on the table. “I can’t wait much longer to get you into the bath.” 

John lifted his eyes to gaze at the lovely man sitting next to him. “You are so..”

“So what?”

“Mine. You are so mine.”

“And you are the joy of my life and mine, mine, mine, as well,”  
Sherlock crooned.

John smiled sleepily at the sentiment behind those heartfelt words. Sherlock was brilliant at diverting attention and changing the course of a conversation so John couldn’t protest even if he wanted to.

With the last morsel of biscuit and swallow of tea, John pushed up from his chair and leaned into his detective’s side as they walked with their arms around each other.

“To the bath, my good fellow, Sherlock chortled.

0o0

“Allow me, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock whispered, reaching for the buttons on John’s muddied shirt. 

Sherlock freed each item of clothing from John’s body and helped him into the warmth of the filling tub. He undressed quickly, slipping in behind him. John sighed, dropping his head fall back against Sherlock’s chest.

“Is that..?”

“Pomegranate. It’s a calming fragrance, yes?”

“Makes me hungry.” 

“I believe Mrs. Hudson left some raspberry jam in the fridge. Mrs. Turner brought them back from her recent vacation.”

“On toast, that would be brilliant.”

“Raspberry on toast you shall have, in a few hours after your porridge has settled. Perhaps it would do for a late brunch?”

“Sherlock, this isn’t long ago, you know, why are using arcane speech?”

When Sherlock nosed into his army doctor’s neck, and pressed a kiss against his pulse, John leaned in to it. “Romance, John, but if you’d rather, just think of raspberries.”

“Hmm. Okay, I can do that.”

After Sherlock had replenished the hot water several times with his magical prehensile toes, as John called them, they’d drained the water heater.

“Just as well,” John said with a sigh, “if we stayed much longer, we’d be mistaken for old, wrinkled men. Or raisins.”

“John, you do know that we are just entering our prime.”

“Speak for yourself Sherlock Holmes, I’m feeling quite a bit past it.”

“How do you feel about dead par-rots,” Sherlock said in his best impersonation of John Cleese and a reference to the famous sketch from Monty Python’s Flying Circus. 

John snorted as he stepped from the tub with a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He could tell that Sherlock was proud of that one.

“There’s a sentence you don’t hear everyday,” John said with a worn-out huff. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

“No, I suppose not, but it is a classic. You taught me to appreciate the absurd.”

“Ah, the absurd. Such is our life, Sherlock.”

“No, John,” Sherlock said in all seriousness, “it is what it is.”

John swallowed hard, looking back at him with a flash of pain in his eyes. “And what it is, is..”

“Perfect, John. Well, maybe not totally perfect, but nearly, well, not every day, but most days, well..”

“Sherlock,” John whispered as he pulled on his dressing gown and drew him down for a kiss. You don’t have to entertain me with impersonations of John Cleese or even David Tennant as the Doctor to keep me from thinking bad thoughts. Besides, every day is perfect with you, even when it’s not. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, no matter how tedious and hateful a day is, just having you in my life makes it perfect for me, even when it’s not.”

John kissed him again. “We are simply brilliant together.”

“Yes, we are. Tea?”

“The answer to all things, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took John’s hand and locked their fingers together. “Time for porridge,” he chortled gleefully. When John laughed out loud, from his toes, it seemed, his objective achieved, he gave John a shy smile. The Case of the Missing Army Doctor was solved. All that was left was schlepping through the emotional side of it, but that was for another day.

Insisting that John sit at the table while he prepared the porridge drew a weak protest, but the detective stayed firm until John relented with a sigh. Sherlock worried a bit when he gave in so easily, but satisfied his own concern with the knowledge that they were together, clean and warm, and not injured. Well, John was mildly injured. Sherlock’s stiff muscles renewed after the heat of their bath. A good night’s sleep and no rough and tumble would do, he was certain.

Sitting beside John instead of opposite allowed him to gently encourage him to eat. He dared not look away too long; he’d already found John leaning on his hand, dozing, spoon suspended in the air. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, planting a tiny kiss there. “May I feed you?”

John grunted awake for just seconds before his eyes fluttered closed again. Sherlock wondered if John would chew if he filled his mouth with porridge. He did. Sherlock grinned at his sleepy face. 

John was probably still a bit dehydrated, Sherlock determined, tea was not a necessity. Water on the nightstand would do.

While John drifted, eyes closed and head resting on his arms, Sherlock rinsed and set the dishes in the sink after deciding they could wait for the morning. 

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, time for bed,” Sherlock said, patting John’s shoulder. “Up you get.”

“Need the loo. All the water you forced on me. My bladder is about to explode.”

Chuckling, Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of his head and at the door, left him to it.

“I’ll get the extra duvet and blankets you requested. Call if you need help, and brush your teeth in case we do a bit of kissing.”

A murmured ‘fine’ was all the reply Sherlock heard; he smiled just for the joy of it.

Already in bed when John reappeared, Sherlock watched him carefully, ready to leap to his aid as he approached the bed.

John looked up at him through sleepy eyes. “I’m okay, really Sherlock, just tired. I think I’ll be making a few more trips to the loo until I’ve excreted...I’m fine. It’s all fine. Forget I said anything. I just need to sleep.”

John crawled into bed, falling heavily onto his side, so they faced each other.

“Come here, love of my life. Let me comfort, cuddle and hold you. And later, when you are asleep, I will spoon you.”

John quirked a minuscule smile toward him. Having John in his arms again was the only thing he needed. The only thing John needed. John’s familiar nuzzling into his neck sent shivers along his spine; his arm across his waist and a hand tucked beneath his hip forced him to close his eyes and bite his lip.

How do you do that to me, John Watson? he wondered.

He held John tighter, resting his cheek against his silvery head.

Don’t care how, just that you do is more than I would ever have expected echoed inside his head.

John snuggled closer, forcing Sherlock to quickly file away his thoughts for another time.

“Y’know,” John began, his words tinged with fast-approaching sleep, “in the beginning...when we-”

“When our lives changed forever because of chance intervention by..”

“Mike Stamford, yes. I never..would never have guessed..” John paused for a moment to rub his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“You never would have guessed what, John?”

“Uh, I lost what I was about to say...oh, I never would have guessed that you were an undercover romantic.”

“I was unaware of such things then, John. It was you, love who discovered I had a heart and therefore, well, the rest is our history, as they say.” 

“Yeah,” John said around a yawn, it’s quite a history.” 

In an effort to erase the strong possibility that John might turn their nighttime musings to the hours just past, the hours of John’s walking away, John’s temporary loss, Sherlock pressed a trail of kisses from head to jaw. John inhaled deeply and sighed.

“Sherlock.”

“Time to sleep. We’re here, we don’t need to go anywhere but the kitchen and the loo. Mrs. Hudson is away, Mycroft will not bother us for a few days. Greg is in Wales.”

“Okay. Later, then?”

“Very well, John, later. Sleep now, my little hobbit. You’re home where you belong.”

“You’re my home. Always...have been. Did you know that?”

“Yes, John.”

“Sherlock?”

“Hush now.”

“Sherlock?”

John sighed. “Not a...hobbit,” he whispered.

Sherlock grinned, pulling back just enough to catch the moment that John slipped away into a well-deserved slumber.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buckle your seat belts, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. 
> 
> Soooooorrrrrrrryyyyyyyy 
> 
> There is a bit of ‘loving up,’ if that helps, although it’s not explicit. Not my area. ;)

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cold.

Alone.

Lost.

Why was he wearing Sherlock’s great coat?

Turning in a complete circle gave him little sense of his location. Trees. A forest? Where? How did he get here? Why was he in this place?

Confused.

Afraid. No, terrified. 

Deduce. Afghanistan again? No, wrong climate. No gunfire, only silence. 

Deduce. Where was he last?

Deduce. The flat at Baker Street. No, Baker Street Travel Clinic, the surgery. His surgery.

Deduce. Dinner. He was supposed to pick up dinner at Angelo’s.

Need more data.

Sherlock waiting.

Worried.

Not enough data to make a deduction.

No. John Watson doesn’t deduce. Wrong much of the time. Sherlock says so.

Sherlock is the deduction genius. Extrapolate, Sherlock. Where am I? How do I get home now?

Sherlock where are you?

Memory. Lab. Bart’s. Mike Stamford. Mrs. Hudson. Home. It was home the moment he went inside. No, not the flat. Sherlock.

Sherlock is home. 

Puzzles, game is on. It’s Christmas. Send this text, exactly.

The cypher.

Pink Lady.

Save Sherlock. The bloody awful cabby.

The Woman.

Jim from IT, no Moriarty.

No, don’t. 

One more miracle, just for me.

Mary.

You made a vow. You promised.

Sherlock!

No! Sherlock! Sherlock! Come back. Come back.

“John.”

One word. Just one word.

“John.”

Warm hands holding his face. 

The forest, fading.

“John.”

Morning. Sunlight.

Frantic kisses. Hands.

Comfort.

Sherlock.

Home. Sherlock is home.

“Where are you!”

“John. I’m right here, right beside you. Just open your eyes and see. I’m here. I’ve found you. Open your eyes, John.”

Chest heaving as he struggled to drag in enough air to keep from choking, John opened his eyes. On his knees, straddling Sherlock’s hips, his hands locked around those elegant wrists enough to bruise, John slowly came back to himself.

“Oh, God, Sherlock.” 

“It’s all right, John. You didn’t hurt me.”

Horrified just the same, John tried to scuttle away, but Sherlock pulled him down against his chest and held him with one strong arm across his back and a hand at the nape of his neck, keeping their heads together.

“A bad one?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You cannot control what your subconscious tells you.”

“You can.”

Sherlock smiled against his cheek. “Well, I am a genius and therefore, such a mind can do many unusual things.”

John had no response. In the deepest part of him, he realised Sherlock was trying to calm him. Before another thought crossed his mind, Sherlock rolled him onto his back, pinning him to the mattress. John closed his eyes, welcoming the weight and comfort of Sherlock’s body and his unconditional love.

Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and holding him in a fierce grip was the only way to communicate how much he loved and appreciated the care and concern he received from this man every day of their lives and that it was reciprocal in equal measure.

“Teach me?”

“Teach you what?”

John was silent for many minutes while Sherlock pressed kisses to every inch of his face. Breathless, the dream already a distant memory because of Sherlock’s ministrations, John took another moment to find his voice.

“How to tell my subconscious to fuck off?”

His consulting detective smiled down at him. “It would be my pleasure, but I must warn you that it is a long, loving process with a tremendous amount of...”

“Holmes innuendo and foreplay? I think I’m going to like this.”

“You can be very certain of that, John Watson,” Sherlock promised as he lowered his head to take John’s mouth.

0o0

Sated and cuddled together beneath layers of blankets and the duvet, Sherlock steeled himself to dash from their cocoon, across the chilly floor to the loo for a warm flannel. John didn’t stir at all. Sherlock paused to rest a cautious hand to the rise and fall of his doctor’s chest. Satisfied that all was well, he cleaned them both and slid under the blankets to curl himself around John. Inhaling the scent that was John’s alone, tea and toast and porridge, infused with their lovemaking, he eventually slept, his nose pressed to the hair at John’s nape.

Much later Sherlock awakened to a soft feathering of fingers on his lips. For more seconds than he cared to commit to memory, Sherlock waited, eyes still closed, breath even and steady as though still asleep, he was brilliant at that, John had not yet learned that magic trick in all the years they’d been together.

“I know you’re awake, love.”

Until now.

Unable to hold back a smile, Sherlock opened his eyes to gaze into the dark blue eyes he loved with all his heart.

“I’ve been found out. When?”

“Almost from the first time we slept together. You are very obvious in more ways than you realise. For the most observant man I know, you are a more than a bit transparent. At least to me.”

“John Hamish Watson, if I have become transparent in my mid-life, I am pleased that it is only with you.”

“Have I said today how much I love you?”

“With everything you are and I hope that you know that I love you just as much.”

A blush coloring John’s still too pale cheeks chased away a bit of the sadness Sherlock knew was weighing on him. As they looked at each other, the sorrow washed away the brief respite. He would have to try harder. 

“Now, John?”

“No. A bit later. Please?”

“When you are ready, John, I will be here. I will always be here.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, John. Don’t be sorry. You have no reason to be sorry, nor is an apology due me.”

John nodded slowly, curling into Sherlock’s arms and tucking his head beneath his chin.

“There is a pain in my heart, John, because you are hurting and as much as you know you need to talk, you’re afraid to open up all those old wounds. Yes?” 

John let his head fall, chin to his chest, away from Sherlock’s attempt to comfort him. Sherlock countered by tightening his arms around his army doctor and crossed them over his chest. 

Taking his hand, and weaving their fingers together Sherlock kissed his ear. John gripped his hand for a moment, lifting it to his lips for a kiss. Sherlock returned the gesture. Another few moments passed before he stood, pulling John to his feet.

“I’ll prepare lunch. I think there are things for some sort of salad with vinaigrette and leftover risotto that you made. I’ll throw in the ubiquitous peas and we’re good.”

“All right. I’ll find something sweet for you to have after.”

Sherlock smiled at him, taking him in his arms and stealing his breath with a kiss. “Too late, John,” he teased. “I’ve already had my dessert and, if all goes well..I will indulge...again later.” 

John finally smiled. “Oh, you think so?”

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Oh, I’m fairly certain of it.”

Whether it happened or not depended on what and how much John had to unburden from his heart, but no matter how it unfolded, he would be there, ready to catch him if he fell.

“Shall we have a fire in the hearth, Dr. Watson?”

“That would be nice, Sherlock. I can do that.”

Taking John’s hand, he walked him to the fireplace, kneeling down and pulling John down beside him.

“Let’s do it together.”

“Together.”

John poked at the kindling still in the grate, and frowned.

“John? What is it?”

“Remind me to order more kindling for the bin downstairs so Mrs. Hudson doesn’t have to do it. I promised and then forgot.”

“Duly noted, John.”

When John tucked a runaway curl behind his ear, and carded his fingers upward from nape to crown, Sherlock shivered, reaching out to pull John to his side. “I won’t be responsible for what happens if you do not stop playing with my follicles.”

John chuckled, planting an open-mouth kiss on his cheek.

“Ew, John, body fluids.”

“As if that would bother the scientist that you are.”

Sherlock basked in the glow of John’s slight uptick in mood. He vowed, no, he vowed to never make another vow after that first one. He’d simply try to make John smile more often.

They bickered over the correct way to load the logs onto the grate. Sherlock poked with the andiron to force the ashes below the grate so that John could scoop them into the tin pail for later disposal. 

Once the fire was acceptable to Sherlock, he set the fire screen safely in its place, then pulled John to him for another mind-numbing kiss.

“Sherlock, remember what you said...body fluids.”

Sherlock looked down into John’s dark eyes, observing a bit of a twinkle, a good sign, no, a very good sign.

“Shut.up.”

“Berk,” John shot back.

“Tosser.” Sherlock frowned. He never used that term. That was John’s area.

“Great git.”

There was no point in trying to one-up John Watson with his cursing expertise. He opened his mouth once and then again, finally settling on exactly the right words. “Love of my life,” he delivered with a smile.

John pursed his lips, shaking his head and giggling as well.

“Yeah, that. You are that, for me, too.”

Sorrow softened for now, John’s palliative care prepared in the triage area of his mind palace for later use, Sherlock took John’s hand and walked backward while leading him to the kitchen. His heart swelled with his love for this man.

Oh, sentiment.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...banging his head against the door, once, twice, because it felt so good when he stopped.

Most of the afternoon was spent reading, their chairs pushed side by side in front of the fire, or lying together on the sofa talking about everything the elephant in the room looming over them. 

Surprised that Sherlock’s laptop remained unopened and the notification signal turned off, John nevertheless appreciated the effort made on his behalf. For once, John felt as though he were interesting enough to stave off Sherlock’s notoriously low threshold for boredom. 

His detective watched, constantly, until he felt like he was a specimen under the microscope, and his irritation multiplied. Perhaps he dreaded the thought of IT, too, but Sherlock wasn’t the one who had to gut himself to get through it. He squeezed his eyes shut. Why not just do it and get it over with? The moment that thought crossed his mind, his anger got the better of him.

“Shite,” he ground out, bolting upright, heading toward the door. “Shite.Shite.shite. I hate it. Damn.it. Fuck.it.all.to.hell.” 

“John.” 

“Stupid.idiot.arse.”

“John.”

With nowhere to go that Sherlock couldn’t follow or stop him, John leaned his head against the landing door, finally resigning himself to the inevitable agony of remembering all over again. For an instant he tried to make it all disappear. He’d done it so many times just to get through the days after Sherlock, after Mary, after everything. Driving it all down deep inside, he’d kept it under lock and key, but the door stood open now, the bad stuff oozing out, and all that bad stuff couldn’t be pushed back inside. 

“Fuck,” he forced out through clenched teeth. He lost control then, banging his head against the door, once, twice, because it felt so good when he stopped.

“John. Don’t. Please. John! Stop!”

He hadn’t realised he was crying until Sherlock pulled him away from the door and into his strong embrace. His arms went around Sherlock’s waist, holding on to the only person he trusted as a lifeline, a touchstone who would make sure he didn’t fall into the abyss.

John cried for it all without saying a word, but Sherlock knew,  
he always knew. Sherlock understood him so much better than he understood himself. 

After all that had happened, after all that John had done, Sherlock still loved him. The thought of it made him cry all the more. He didn’t deserve that love, and yet, Sherlock offered it unconditionally. And he’d fucked it up. Again.

“Stop it, John.”

John rolled his forehead on Sherlock’s chest to relay his negative response.

“Stop thinking what you’re thinking.”

Choking on his own tears, John weakly resisted when Sherlock lifted his head to gaze into his eyes. He frowned. “What?”

“You are thinking so loud, John. You are thinking that after all you’ve done, or failed to do with regard to Mary and to me, at the moment, specifically me, I think, which is a bit illogical, even for you...you don’t deserve to be loved for just being you. Why is it that you can love me, flaws and idiosyncrasies included, but I can’t love you and yours? Do you even know?”

John tried to pull away, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him go. He struggled half-heartedly, then gave up, denying the wallowing self-pity into which he so desperately wanted to disappear, but knowing Sherlock would never let that happen.

Sherlock’s body shifted gently, his long, elegant fingers framing his face, warm lips kissing away his tears. “Breathe, John,” Sherlock whispered, taking his hand and leading him to the sofa.

Drawn down to straddle Sherlock’s thighs, John wrapped himself around his love’s shoulders, turning his head to rest on a bony shoulder, but facing the wall. Sherlock’s long neck was too suggestive of another way to divert attention...to other things.

For a long time, John remained silent, indecisive, wavering, trolling his mind for synonyms for what churned in his gut. Finding none that gave him absolution, he settled on the one word that fit his hesitancy...fear. It was a good noun, it fit. Afraid, that’s what he was. Afraid that Sherlock would not understand this time. 

“John. Talk to me? Please?”

0o0

“You’re facing away from me. Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about revealing what you think you’ve kept hidden from me?”

Circling fingers and palms over John’s ribs and back achieved the calm he hoped for. John’s breathing slowed to normal, his trembling only intermittent. Sherlock wanted John to decide what he needed from him. Whatever John needed was what he was prepared to give. Unconditionally, and for as long as he needed.

“You haven’t spoken to me in..” he continued caressing with one hand while he glanced at his watch. “One hour. Since I’m the one who used to go for long periods without speaking, I’m pretty much an expert in that area. Your silences, however, usually indicate that you are ruminating about something that you don’t want me to know, or you’re not sure how to share.”

Sherlock paused intentionally for several minutes. “Where was I? Oh, yes, John, you’ve known for a long time that there is little that escapes my observation. Let me tell you what I have observed, yes, that is the word I choose because you don’t appreciate my deductions when it concerns you, and that’s fair.”

Holding his hands at the centre of John’s back, he considered his words carefully.

“You no longer wish to see a therapist. That is your prerogative, but I think you need to talk to someone who knows you well. Someone who knows and understands what you have suffered since the day we met. Well, not from the day we met, but from the night you saved me from that dreadful cabby, but I digress.”

John relaxed against him. It was the clue Sherlock needed for confirmation that his words were resonating with his army doctor.

“I am not a therapist, I cannot claim that title. What I am is me, who loves you with all my heart, and although we are sometimes codependent, a lot of those sometimes, I would never enable you, is that the term, John? I do, however want what is best for you, and your safety and happiness is my foremost concern.”

“I know, Sherlock,” John whispered against his shoulder.

Sherlock hugged him until John grunted and turned his face into his neck. He let himself smile as the love he felt for John bubbled over, filling him with a familiar warmth.

“I think there’s still a bit of liquid courage under the kitchen sink, if you’re inclined, John.”

“No, I did enough of that after you died and then after Mary. It doesn’t help, it just numbs my brain.”

“Hmm.”

“Good?” John whispered barely enough to be heard.

“Very good.”

“My legs are asleep, Sherlock.”

“Mine, too.”

A minor adjustment later, they both lay on their sides, facing each other, sharing the same small pillow rescued from beneath the sofa.

“The pillow smells like you, love.”

“Perhaps I was the last one to use it. Does it make you swoon?”

John smiled at that, but it was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

They lay together in comfortable silence, kissing occasionally, Sherlock whispering words of love, John soaking it all in, and continuing to avoid. Sherlock would out wait him. 

Time after time the detective thought John might unburden his heart. In every instance the moment seemed imminent, John let it pass. If John was ever going to go there, Sherlock had to nudge him in the right direction.

“John?”

“Mmm?”

“Why Hampstead Heath?”

John looked at him with the saddest expression Sherlock had ever seen him wear. John inched closer until he somehow managed to get his head between Sherlock’s and the pillow. Pressed together from chest to thighs, the detective held his breath until John pushed one leg between his. Holding John tightly with one arm, he pressed a kiss to his ear, offering encouragement as he did so.

“Talk to me, John. There isn’t anything you can say to me that will alter how I feel about you. Sharing your pain only makes me feel closer to you, makes me love you more. Please, John, let me share your fear and sorrow.”

John reached for him with one trembling hand. Sherlock circled his fingers around it, bringing it to his lips.

“I’m here, John. Right here. Why Hampstead Heath?”

“I don’t know. I was at the clinic, then I was there, but until you told me, I didn’t know where I was.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock contemplates the puzzle of John’s memories, while John considers Honey Loops and vanilla almond milk.
> 
> A respite or three.

John’s words finally presented themselves, but with great difficulty; that he was able to utter them, was all down to Sherlock. Without him, John was certain he would suffer forever, carrying his guilt on his shoulders like..he didn’t know what.

It was easier to keep his face hidden, not having Sherlock looking at him, running deductions in his head because that’s what he did so well, even if he’d been asked not to do so. 

“I was at the clinic. It was busy, lots of children, sore throats, the ones that weren’t sick were piling in at the last minute for their flu jabs. Annoyed mothers, fathers without a clue. The longer it went on, the longer the day seemed to be. I didn’t want to be there, I wanted to be here, with you.”

He grimaced at the sound of his own voice. A monotone. Emotionless. Boring, but it was the only way he felt he could force it out into the open.

“When did you notice that time had gone missing?”

John held his breath. He knew. Sherlock knew. Shite.

“When, John?”

“Off and on all day. I was disconnected, on autopilot a lot of the time.”

“So you had some awareness?”

“Yes. I went to the loo. I splashed cold water on my face, but it didn’t help much. I think I was okay there for a bit, but when I went back to the children, everything just went lopsided again.”

“Do you think you may have had a dissociative episode because the stress of the children overwhelmed you?”

“You mean as in ‘fugue?’ 

“Extreme emotional trauma and stress? Possible?”

“That’s not my area, Sherlock, but a fugue is very rare. There was no psychological trauma.”

“No psychological trauma? In the time we have known each other-”

John stiffened, trying to ease himself away, but Sherlock only held him tighter until he surrendered. 

“There wasn’t something that so distressed me that I blocked it out. Not at the surgery anyway. And except for a few minutes when I woke up in the forest didn’t know where I was and sort of didn’t know who I was, and I didn’t remember you, all that eventually sorted itself out.”

Feeling safe and secure in this place and in Sherlock’s embrace alleviated his discomfort, but didn’t make it any easier to share. Still, Sherlock seemed to know on instinct what questions would tick his memory.

“Are you certain?”

“I’m not sure of all of it, Sherlock. Nothing like this, not even after Afghanistan was there anything like this. Once I recovered from the fever, even though I was depressed a lot of the time and I had dreams of the war, I never lost sight of my reality.”

Sherlock pulled him closer, tighter, lightly feathering his fingers over his neck.

“Do you remember leaving the clinic?”

For a long moment John thought about the question. “I sort of remember finishing the patient files, I think, probably because I was done there for the week and they needed to be completed. I remember putting them on the desk of the doctor in charge. I remember putting on my coat. I think I remember saying goodnight to one of the staff, but I don’t remember walking out the door. I know I forgot the takeaway from Angelo’s, but I remembered that when things started coming back to me in the forest.”

“That’s good, John. You need to put the pieces together with what you factually remember and the rest will fall into place for you.”

John finally felt safe enough to pull back to look into Sherlock’s eyes.

“There you are. It’s brilliant to see you.”

“I’m safe with you.”

“Always, John. You are always safe with me.”

John blinked back the prickling behind his eyes and pulled in a shaky breath as a stray memory surfaced.

“What is it, John, what are you remembering right now?”

“I remember standing on the pavement outside the clinic. It was night, there wasn’t much traffic. I suddenly felt a wave of..something, like a shiver? Nausea or vertigo? I don’t know what it was. My head seemed empty. I started to walk, not sure any direction, I just walked. The longer I walked, the less I observed my surroundings.”

“When did you notice the dark memories, John?”

“I don’t know. My head was empty and then they were there, all dark and evil and foreboding like fevered dreams.”

“So, hallucinations rather than a fugue?”

“In the beginning it was like I was shutting down, running away from something. I don’t know Sherlock. It’s not clear.”

“Can you tell me what you were seeing and thinking as you walked?”

“Some of it, but you aren’t going to like it.”

“That’s what I usually say, John. Stay in your own area,” Sherlock told him with a smirk and in that lung-vibrating baritone.

“Is that your commanding officer voice?”

“No, it’s my normal voice, the one I use when I know you’re hurting, the voice that loves you more than anything, John, so stop prevaricating, waffling, or whatever else you are doing. Just stop. You said you feel safe with me. Let’s get on with it so it won’t overwhelm you again.”

Sherlock bit his lip, looking at once sad and lost. John wondered how he did that. It made his stomach flip but not in a bad way.

“Sherlock, what is it? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, John, I just had a memory flash of my own. It’s nothing important.” 

He studied the beautiful face, so solemn at that moment. In an instant, Sherlock’s smile returned, and John was gathered against Sherlock’s chest. 

“A respite, John. Just for a short time.”

“Okay.” His gut was suspicious, but if he tried to raise the question with Sherlock, he would deny it, he let it go.

Lying in Sherlock’s arms soothed his raw nerves and allowed him to drift. For a brief few minutes, in this cocoon of love and care, his mind was calm and thoughts far away. 

Sherlock’s deep inhaled breath gently brought him back.

“John, are you still with me?”

“Yes.”

“So, while you were walking, what happened?”

As if he’d accelerated from zero to sixty in an instant, he was back to it, much like a flashback, walking through the city with no destination, no...anything other than the images inside his head. John felt his heart race, the sound of rushing blood inside his ears. Shaking his head in an effort to chase them away did little more than enlarge them until he felt like he was drowning in darkness. For Sherlock, John soldiered on.

“It was like a walking nightmare, a fevered dream? I know said that before. Everything was crazy, weird, distorted faces, you jumped, you were dead, then you came back, Mary was there, but she died. I hurt you. In the mortuary.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “It was all, I can’t, Sherlock, I can’t. Stop!”

Sherlock reached for him, holding his hands away from his eyes. At his touch, John tried to push back the panic, to not let the waking nightmares take over again.

“John, you need to breathe. Breathe with me.”

As his control slowly returned with Sherlock’s help, John was able to go on. Sherlock continued to hold him in a firm embrace, occasionally tucking a kiss to his temple or the corner of his mouth.

“Can you describe the images that frightened you? The walking nightmares you described earlier. Perhaps together we can make sense of them.”

John nodded, but he was not confident any longer that he could maintain his calm even with Sherlock’s help.

“I’m right here, John. I won’t leave you.”

“All right.”

“We can move ahead as far as you want and as slowly as you need.”

“You already know, don’t you, Sherlock? Why don’t you just solve the puzzle for me, I’ll tell you how amazing and brilliant you are and we can-”

“No, John,” Sherlock interrupted. 

“Have tea?” John finished when Sherlock paused and shook his head, then pressed on as if he hadn’t heard John’s suggesting they have tea.

“Accepting a solution that is not yours is not a solution at all because you haven’t worked through it, discovering it for yourself. I promise I will guide you as much as I can.”

John frowned.

“What is it?”

“I knew you would say that.”

“Good deduction.”

“Not a deduction at all.”

“How so?”

“I know you and your methods. I said that before, too.”

“Dr. Watson, I am honoured.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t a compliment.”

Sherlock smirked. “Oh?”

“Just a fact.”

“All right.”

Suddenly not confident that he could look at Sherlock’s face without seeing pity there, John dropped his gaze to some other place. The detective’s shirt-covered sternum seemed to be the safest spot while his frenzied emotions whirled around him.

“When you were dead, I asked you for a miracle. When you gave me that miracle, I hurt you and even after I knew why you did it, I couldn’t forgive you right away. I made you wait for a long time until I thought I had to tell you before we both died in that train carriage explosion that never happened. You said you didn’t know that I cared, but you lied. You hid behind your humour to get me to confess that I cared about you first. Remembering that was like torture, over and over again. I tried to run away from it, but it was like loo paper stuck to my shoe. It followed me, I couldn’t shake it off.”

“I’m sorry.”

John lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “No, don’t. You’ve apmologised so many times, it only agitates the guilt for both of us. It’s my thoughts that won’t be reasonable.”

Sherlock’s intense scrutiny should have unnerved him, but he’d learned that it was Sherlock’s way. When the great detective looked at him like that, it was because he was trying to deduce, consider, or solve a problem he didn’t always understand. Which word fit this problem, only Sherlock knew.

“Continue, John.”

Straightforward it was, then. 

“My brain wanted to compile a list of painful things that had happened to me and wallow in it. It took control and just kept building, one on top of the other with no obvious weak spot that might allow me to break free.”

“I understand, John.”

John stared at the beautiful mouth that had just uttered those three words that were as powerful at this moment as the ‘I love yous’ spoken so often, but not as many times as either of them would like.

Snapping his mouth closed with an audible click elicited a gentle smile from Sherlock.

“Why are you smiling?”

“You taught me that empathy is a powerful tool. You showed me how to find it within myself. It’s helped me understand you and accept your love and how precious it is that you offer it to me in so many ways and without reservation.”

Straightforward came to a screeching halt with that confession.

“I know what you’re doing, Sherlock.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“I’m pleased, John.”

“Of course you are. Sherlock?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Can we have another..respite?”

“All right? Lunch?”

“Starving.”

Sherlock kissed him sweetly.

0o0 

Secretly pleased that all was going according to plan, John’s suspicion aside, Sherlock held the course with no adjustments needed unless John’s reactions deemed it necessary.

John was quiet, but not agitated as he had been while remembering his walking-waking nightmares that drove him to losing himself in The Heath. Whether John knew where he was when Sherlock found him was unclear. Perhaps that truth would unfold at some point in John’s loss of time narrative. If not, well.. 

“John? Are you not hungry?”

His army doctor pushed his plate away, the leftover takeaway untouched. 

“Sort of lost my appetite.”

Sherlock reached across to take his hand. For a moment John’s left hand trembled, relaxing when he drew circles over the back of his hand.

“Would something bland suit better?”

“Dunno. Maybe?”

“I think I have just the thing for you,” he whispered, palming the crown of John’s head as he moved away from the table.

“Sherlock, I don’t think my insides want to be introduced to anything new. The smell of the takeaway...”

The detective hummed as he quickly prepared something more palatable for his love.

“Here we are, my love muffin,” Sherlock murmured, placing a bowl of cold cereal and milk in front of John. “Honey Loops and vanilla almond milk. Mrs. Hudson tucked a container of it in the fridge. Said it was better for us than regular milk. Better for the digestion, she insisted.”

“Honey Loops?”

“Yes, John, Honey Loops and almond milk,” Sherlock said as he knelt beside John to draw him into a sweet kiss. “An acceptable substitution when your tummy is not just right.”

Gazing back at him, John smiled. “Thank you, Sherlock. It’s very sweet of you. I love you, y’know?”

“Yes, I do.”

“A lot.”

“And I love you with everything that I am.”

John scratched at his day-old beard while he chewed his Honey Loops. “I think I need to shave. It’s getting itchy.”

“Hmm." Sherlock leaned forward to rest his finger against John’s cheek.

Sherlock’s beard-stroking with one finger made John shiver and lean into the touch. He found it deliciously erotic, so much so that he had to clear his throat before speaking. 

“I normally like my doctors clean-shaven, but for you I will make an exception. The auburn in your beard is an unusual contrast to your blond hair.” He grinned. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you that before.”

“Sherlock, maybe we could postpone the rest until some other day?”

Sherlock gazed at him. John held his gaze before averting his eyes. 

“Ignoring it will not bring you peace, John. Your first therapist, Ella, as I remember, was quite correct when she advised you to talk about it in whatever way was comfortable for you.” 

Choking on a spoonful of cereal, John glared at him. “Why do you do that, Sherlock?”

“Do what?”

“Read my mind.”

“Not in my repertoire, John.”

“It’s one of your methods, though. You say you never guess, but you do, sometimes. When you’re desperate.”

“I gather facts, and extrapolate from there. With you it is sooooo simple,” Sherlock teased with a roll of his eyes and an exaggerated smile. “But you already know that.”

John nodded slowly, spooning the last of his cereal into his mouth, then drinking the almond milk. “I’ll have to thank Mrs. Hudson for the heads up, it is better than regular milk.”

“John? I sense that you are stalling,” he said, observing too late the fire in John’s eyes. He paused, saying nothing further until the doctor decided on fight or flight.

After an elongated moment of silence, John stepped around Sherlock and took his empty bowl to the sink. He left it there, soaking with hot water and soap and walked to the sitting room to drop into his chair.

So, flight. Perhaps too tired to fight? Sherlock gave John space and time while he did the washing up. He thought about John’s attempt at a request to postpone talking. While he didn’t want to postpone, feeling it might be detrimental to the forward movement, he hesitated pushing John beyond his comfort. As close as they were, as well as they knew each other, sometimes finishing each other’s sentences or knowing what was about to be said before it was verbalised, in the end, it had to be John’s decision. Contrary to what was intimated earlier, he was not John’s commanding officer.

Leaning against the archway between the kitchen and the fireplace end of the sitting room, Sherlock smiled at the memory, long ago now, when John had questioned him about the ‘commanding officer’ comment in regard to Major Sholto. Suddenly Sherlock understood a bit better thanks to the sharp pain in his heart. It was a small pain, but an exquisite one simply because it was a moment he shared with only John while sitting together on a bench not far from the changing of the guard. 

While John sat staring into the dying fire, obviously far away, Sherlock added more kindling and logs and soon had the fire burning brightly again. Dropping into his chair, he watched the play of the firelight on his doctor’s face. Deep in thought, John was unaware of his scrutiny, so he let him just be with himself for a while longer.

Sherlock read a few articles in the latest forensic journal, ignored his laptop beneath the chair, tuned his violin, but did not play, all the while keeping a weather eye on John’s countenance. 

The longer John stared into the fire, the more confident Sherlock was that John had decided to evade the issue, just not talk about anything. That was not good. Not a bit.

“John.”

John did not answer, but a nearly inaudible sigh escaped.

“John.”

Silence.

Sherlock slipped from his chair to kneel in front of him.

“I know you hear me, just as I know you’re ignoring me because you don’t want to talk anymore. It’s okay, John, I understand.  
No more talking for today. We have time. Tomorrow will be acceptable.”

John leaned forward to drape himself over Sherlock’s shoulders.  
The detective held him for as long as he needed.

“It’s all right John. Whatever you need.”

When John pulled back, Sherlock padded across the floor to where the door stood open. He closed and locked both landing doors, and secured the fireplace. Standing in front of John once more, he offered his hands. 

John looked up at him, tipping his head to one side as a question not asked, but understood.

“For now, John. A respite.”

With an arm resting at the small of John’s back, Sherlock led John to their bedroom.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All hell breaks loose, again.
> 
> “Save John Watson,” Mary reminded him from the depths of his Mind Palace.

Later...much later, John lay in Sherlock’s arms, remembering wanting to, but unable to for the first time since he and Sherlock had become we and us. It was unfair to Sherlock, but he couldn’t even try. Sherlock held him, his fingers wiping away his tears, whispering ‘it’s okay’ when John knew it really wasn’t, but didn’t have the strength to disagree or prove him wrong.

Then, after they dozed a bit, John startled awake with a cry in his throat from a dream, a nightmare really, that he couldn’t remember, but one that left behind a dread of guilt building in the pit of his stomach.

“It’s okay, John.”

And in a deja vu moment, John shouted, “No it’s not. It’s not okay.” 

“I know, John, it is what it is and all that, but we can do this, we can look at everything, push through it and come out relatively unscathed on the other side. And by God and all that is holy, I will be there by your side. I will carry you the whole way, if that is what you need.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered with a catch in his throat. He’d seen Sherlock tear up a dozen or more times, but this time the shine of unshed tears unnerved him. As was his nature, John pulled Sherlock into his arms, cradling his curly head against his shoulder.

“I know you’ll be with me every minute, whenever I need you and even when I don’t, no, that’s not right, you are always there, I will always need you.”

“I want my John back,” Sherlock whispered against his shoulder.

0o0 

Sherlock felt the heat in every cell of his cheeks the moment his admission passed his lips, but he was not ashamed. Never with John. Sorrowful perhaps, no he was certain it was sorrow...for losing John to some sort of fugue, amnesia, loss. Whatever it was called, it had stolen his John. 

It was hateful. 

Tedious.

Unacceptable.

He wanted, needed to free John from the clutches of this darkness that held him captive.

If they were to trade places, Sherlock was certain he would not have to be encouraged to add a string of epithets.

“No, Sherlock, don’t curse. It’s unbecoming of a genius with an amazing command of the English language.”

Connected as they were, according to Molly, by the ‘Red String of Fate,’ Sherlock was not surprised at John’s words. The tale, much more pleasing than his brother’s story of the East Wind, charmed him when applied to his army doctor. 

Laughter rumbled in Sherlock’s chest as he snuggled deeper into John’s embrace.

“One day, I will find a way to surprise you, John Watson.”

“You surprise me every day, love. Even when you are at your naughtiest, you surprise me with your loveliness.”

Sherlock leaned further back against the sofa cushions to gaze at his doctor’s face. John’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, and in his dark blue eyes, love gently flickered. Glancing from John’s eyes to his mouth and back again, Sherlock nipped at his lips, seeking permission.

“Yes.”

“Oh, brilliant,” he whispered, swooping in to cover John’s mouth with his own and stealing his breath.

Later, much later, after they’d moved to the bedroom and loved each other into a besotted haze, they lay, bodies entwined, trading soft kisses to only places requiring little more than extended necks or desperate mouths. 

It was in the aftermath, in that small scope of time when they needed no words, when synced so closely in mind, body, and soul, that John surfaced. Sherlock, breathless, welcomed him. His John.

“You were dead and I was lost. I’d lost my best friend and I thought it was my fault. I didn’t understand why you would do that. You were the best and wisest man I had ever known, I still feel that way, but at that time I didn’t understand why someone like you who didn’t give a damn about what anyone else thought or said would claim to be a fraud and then...jump.”

John tucked his chin over Sherlock’s shoulder, as if to hide his face, and tightened his arms around his waist before he continued. 

“In my heart, I knew you weren’t a fraud; I thought I wasn’t enough to keep you here with me. After you died, I was nearly catatonic, but your words, ‘it’s just a magic trick’ kept playing over and over in my head. I heard them, but didn’t understand at first, until that day when I stood by your grave. I said the words I needed to say, but only to you. And you were there, you bastard, you were there. You heard every word I said.”

There was no longer any sign of rancor in either John’s tone or, Sherlock knew with all his heart, his words. It sounded for all the world like relief. Finally.

John tilted his head to allow Sherlock access to the sensitive skin behind his ear. John shivered deliciously, Sherlock noted.

When John was silent for longer than Sherlock thought wise, and also because of John’s predisposition toward burying his feelings when left unattended, Sherlock kissed him again, knowing full well he alone could bring down John’s resolve, his strong British fortitude. It would not do to break him, Sherlock simply needed to love him down to the ground.

“When you came back, I was so angry that when I finally remembered what I had said at your grave, I sort of recalled a feeling I had of being watched. It was just for an instant, a few seconds, like a wave passing over me. I think that’s what made me ask you to give me one more miracle. Just for me.”

“By then I’d replaced the memories of the war with memories of you. And it nearly destroyed me.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched in his chest. It was never easy to hear in John’s own words, and in his voice, how much his loss devastated his best friend. Sherlock received a miracle himself the day John forgave him and more times since for which he could never account.

It is what it is.

John’s hand palmed along his jaw brought Sherlock back to the moment.

“I’m sorry, John. I let my mind wander a bit to consider your words and how my actions hurt you, and further explore how I should have done better to shield you from the inevitable grief. I have no excuse, except for my ignorance of how you would internalise your grief and...guilt.”

John sighed. “I think you’re apologising again. I’ve already accepted it a so many times. No more Sherlock. Your repeated apologies are hurting you more than me now, in this moment. Delete it, please, or at least put it in some dark, back room of your Mind Palace and lock the door. For me, Sherlock, would you do that for me?”

Like a shot in the dark, John’s ‘would you do that for me’ forced Sherlock to remember that in slightly different words, they had asked it of each other, he on the roof at Bart’s and John at his grave.

It reverberated deep inside him and for a moment Sherlock couldn’t draw a single breath. He couldn’t delete it either, so he obliged John’s request to hide it in the dark corner of least used archive of his Mind Palace and closed the door. It locked of its own accord.

“Okay?”

John’s voice broke through to him, bringing with him the consent to breathe again. 

“I got lost in my thoughts about you...again.”

John brought his hands up to hold Sherlock’s face. “I understand. We’re in unknown territory here. The blind leading the blind, stumbling in the dark.”

“Two idiots in love, John.”

John’s chuckle in his ear took away the sting of not being fully in the moment for the love of his life. In light of every other time, surely John would also forgive him this small transgression.

“True, but somehow between the two of us, you mostly, we always solve the case.”

“Brilliantly, of course, because you are my conductor of light.”

“Yes, brilliantly. And sometimes a little worse for wear.”

Sherlock could feel John’s smile against his cheek. 

“I saw myself not welcoming you home..how I hit you, ignored you, how Mary accepted you, she liked you right away. That should have been me.”

John sat up then, facing him, sitting cross-legged beside him. Taking John’s hands in his, Sherlock waited.

“I remember most of it now, and it doesn’t terrify me as much now as it did then. It was like an assault with flashes of memories while I walked, wherever I walked, I couldn’t shut them down.”

“Like fevered dreams, you said.”

“Yes, distorted faces, voices, evil-sounding voices like something out of a dreadful horror film from long ago. Circling, reaching out to me, skeletons, all of them bony skeletons. I knew they meant me harm.”

“Who were they, John? Do you know?”

“All of them. Moriarty, Magnussen, Smith, mostly. Mary, Mycroft, Irene Adler were there, but not always threatening. Like a..a whole cast of bad actors in a terrible nightmare.”

Eyes blown wide, seeing what only he could see, in a place where Sherlock couldn’t follow, John spoke in a strained monotone again, his speech short and clipped.

On high alert now, Sherlock watched his doctor for signs of increasing distress, his mind frantically searching for ways to ease John back to reality when he found himself again on the outside. The side Sherlock hoped would bring him home, safe and whole. Was this in a smaller part what John experienced when he, Sherlock, disappeared into his Mind Palace?

John began to tremble, staring into some strange reality.

“Mary. I loved her, she betrayed me, she shot you, she lied, lied about everything. I loved her, I forgave her. I married her when I loved you. I will live with that for the rest of my life. I loved both of you, but I chose her. I should have chosen you. I could see it in your face. You loved me, I loved you. I chose her but you still loved me, taking only the leftovers. Whatever I could give.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hands to let him know he was near. His eyes filled with tears as he tried to prepare himself for whatever was going to next fall from John’s devastated psyche.

“My own mind mocked me. It kept reminding me that you made a vow to protect the three of us, but now there was only me and you. Just the two of us against the world. Mary mocked me, from beyond life. She kept telling me that when I saw her it wasn’t real, that she was dead, the baby was never to be and I was alone, and now I could have you all to myself.”

Sherlock moved closer to John, holding him against his shoulder. John burrowed into his neck, oblivious to anything outside himself while he emptied himself of all that threatened to devour him.

“You almost died that time, twice, in that hospital. Mary told me to save you. It was all Eurus. I don’t know how many times I would need to hear that story to believe it really happened, but my mind ran it on a loop and no matter how I tried then and even now, I can’t make sense of what happened. It happened. Didn’t it? All that happened. You almost died. I will never forget that. I know she’s not right, but she’s your sister. Did Mycroft know, on the plane when you turned around and came back because it seemed Moriarty had returned? Did Mycroft know or even suspect that it might have been Eurus?”

John trembled, his breathing harsh and laboured, before he continued, his painful tale unfolding in front of Sherlock’s eyes.

“Does anyone really know what happened? Or was it just some stupid, drugged up dream that we all got caught up in? Can I blame Mycroft? Why not, he’s usually in it up to his eyeballs, his fingers stirring the pot because he thinks he alone knows what is best for everyone?”

John began to cry then, huge, loud sobs that broke Sherlock’s heart. Pulling John fully against him and into his lap, he gently rocked him.

“John. I’m here, I’ll do whatever it takes to make it better again.” 

“I can’t anymore. I can’t, I just can’t look at it anymore. How do I forget it when it attacks in the middle of the night.”

“You’ll reach out for me, John. I will bring you home.” 

“So much time has gotten away from us, Sherlock.”

“We still have time, John,” he comforted, hoping there was a lot of time for them, but all the same, he worried for John’s well being at this moment. 

Sherlock wondered how much one man could carry before it buried him alive.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fortnight’s reprieve and a resolution of sorts.

For weeks after ‘the adventure of hampstead heath,” so named by Sherlock, and in his Mind Palace in all lower case letters to categorise it not as an insurmountable obstacle, but as a bend in their life path that over time and with a glance over John’s shoulder, would become part of ‘it is what it is.’ It was in the past and together they decided to let it lie until it no longer reared its head; until the past gave up and stayed where it belonged.

Sherlock began an active campaign to keep John moving forward. He made a silent promise to be his confidant. He’d brought John home physically. Together they continued to work through the emotional trauma so that John would never again have to say, “I’m not okay. I’m never gonna be okay.” 

Sherlock continued his research online and the more he read, the more convinced he was that what John experienced was a flashback of all the traumatic events, and there were many, that began with the phone call from the roof of Barts, and accumulated with each subsequent event, ultimately culminating in the tragedy that was Eurus. 

Even more convinced that something happened at the surgery to set off a resurgence of John’s PSTD, Sherlock was unwilling to disturb the hard won peace John had gained.

Sherlock also sensed that peace could be interrupted by the slightest bump. 

And so it was that one day, after the memory images had not appeared in the daytime for nearly a fortnight, and the night terrors nearly as long, a thump at the Baker Street door alerted him that the post had arrived. While John was in the shower, Sherlock flew down the stairs to retrieve it, sorting out Mrs. Hudson’s mail which he left on the table.

When he returned, his doctor stood in the center of the sitting room, eyes glazed and blown wide as he stared at the floor, or most likely a reminder from the past that took him by surprise.

Sherlock expected it to happen periodically, was mindful of it, but without data that only John could provide, much to his annoyance, he couldn’t extrapolate the possibilities.

Tossing the post into John’s chair, Sherlock immediately strode toward him, and with an arm around his shoulders, walked him to the sofa. Guiding him to lie down, Sherlock gathered him in, holding him against his chest, John’s fair head resting in the crook of his elbow. 

“I’m here, John. What you are experiencing right now is not real. I’m real, you’re real. We’re home in our Baker Street flat. Take all the time you need, but come back to me, please, John.”

It was just ten minutes that Sherlock waited for John to step back into himself. 

“It is what it is,” John whispered. “Goodbye, Mary.”

John turned to him, his eyes brimming with tears. Sherlock cradled John’s head with his palm to offer silent comfort while wiping away his tears. 

“I remember, Sherlock. There was a woman at the surgery. I passed her as I walked through the waiting area. She had a baby in her arms. She was blond and she reminded me of Mary. And just like that, everything came back, marching through my head. I couldn’t stay, couldn’t go home, so I ran away.”

Sherlock held him close, silently offering him comfort.

Sherlock knew time would ease, but never erase his doctor’s pain. All of his research confirmed it. Be there for support, listen and comfort. That was what he would do. For now, taking care of John, keeping a weather eye on him and minimising his time alone for the near future would be his privilege.

As he held John in his arms in the waning light there was no way of knowing, of course, how much longer John would grieve all the events that had brought them to this point, but the John Watson he loved was strong, stubborn and resilient.

“No, no, I’m not okay. I’m never gonna be okay. But we’ll just have to accept that. It is what it is.. and what it is, is shit.” Sherlock recalled the words with a deep ache in his chest.

He’d never forget the pain in John’s eyes as he’d said those words. Nor would he ever forget the moment that John had allowed him to see the depth of his sorrow. That John allowed him to see his vulnerability was the gift of his trust. It was a gift he treasured.

As John’s tears subsided and his breathing evened out, Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Resting his head against the sofa cushion in a position that allowed him to gaze down at John’s face, now lax in sleep, Sherlock took solace in the sound of John’s soft breathing. His muscles slowly unwound as he held John safely in his arms and just for a moment he let his thoughts drift. 

“We’ve each gone to hell, John, you more than I,” Sherlock whispered, ”but by some miracle, we survived. Now we move forward, one step at a time, together, always together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who followed John and Sherlock on this emotional journey. Thank you also for all the kudos and supportive comments. I appreciate you all.


End file.
